


Heatwave Behaviour

by obstinatrix



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Heatwave, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 13:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19975042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: It's 35 degrees in London and Crowley is Not Happy About It. Aziraphale thinks it would be churlish not to offer a solution, especially since it's seemingly the only way he'll get to continue groping Crowley in the manner to which he has recently become accustomed.





	Heatwave Behaviour

**Author's Note:**

> It's 35 degrees Celsius in England today, kill me. I did not code the footnote. I do not have sufficient energy.
> 
> ETA: FINE, I'VE CODED IT. It's now 37 degrees.

"If this is your doing," Aziraphale said crossly, "I'd appreciate it if you'd stop doing it. I may be able to maintain an acceptable temperature in here, but all the fridges in Waitrose have broken down and you know I can't get that asparagus tortilla anywhere else."

"Miracle it," said Crowley, in a distracted tone. One long arm dangled off the side of Aziraphale's pleasantly dilapidated settee; in deference to the heat, he had peeled himself out of his ridiculous jeans and was stretched out in t-shirt and boxers, looking all elbows and knees. "Anyway, of course it's not me, why would it be me? I can't stand this, angel. It's hell."

"My poor dear," Aziraphale said, getting up from his desk chair and looking at him worriedly. "It is hot down there, isn't it? All dank and airless, like the Underground in July."

"Where'd you think they got the idea?" A flush had crawled up Crowley's neck, his face red under the freckles. "This vessel wasn't made for this, Aziraphale. Could swear it never used to get this hot."

"Didn't you get a commendation for global warming?"

"Undeserved, obviously," Crowley said, rolling his eyes weakly. "That was all them. Can you not whack it up a bit? The --" He made a gesture, one-handed, which Aziraphale correctly interpreted to mean "angelic air-conditioning."

"There's a limit to what I can manage with microclimates, I'm afraid." Aziraphale himself had, most uncharacteristically, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He had never suffered in the heat the way Crowley did, but there was an unpleasant prickling feeling under his clothes and his hair had rather wilted at the front and was sticking to his forehead in a way which both felt and (Aziraphale was sure) looked unattractive.

"Fuck," Crowley muttered, closing his eyes.

Aziraphale bit his lip, considering, then perched himself on the edge of the settee. "I've a nice view, though."

"Oh, don't," Crowley moaned, opening his eyes again. The look on his face was almost pleading, with an edge of disbelief. "You can't be serious, you just can't."

"But you're laid out so beautifully for me," Aziraphale said innocently, one corner of his mouth curling up. From this proximity, all the fine detail of Crowley was visible in a way it hadn't been from across the room: the hair on his thighs and the notch of his clavicle and the weight of his cock under sweat-damp cotton. The smell of him, like charcoal and warmed cinnamon.

"Stop it," Crowley insisted. "I knew I shouldn't have started this, I knew you'd get like this. Bloody insatiable -- can't just have a little of what you fancy, oh no; no bloody sense of time and place -- Aziraphale, I'm telling you --"

"Telling me what?" Aziraphale concentrated -- set his hand on Crowley's leg, just above the knee. Crowley groaned, and his expression of quiet desperation transfigured itself instantly into something like wonder.

"What're you -- how are you doing that?"

"How do you mean, darling?" As far as magic tricks went, it wasn't difficult; Aziraphale was a being built to heal, after all. A whole microclimate was one thing, but administering a cooling touch took only a thought. He slid his palm upward, and Crowley's thighs parted for it like the Red Sea, hips lifting.

"Keep -- keep touching me."

"You've changed your tune," Aziraphale said, for form's sake. Really, he was too pleased with himself to be piqued; Crowley was lovely like this, all limbs and languid need, and Aziraphale cupped him through his shorts to feel the scorching heat of him under his hand.

"Mmm. I'll sing anything you want, angel, if you keep that up." Crowley groped for Aziraphale's wrist, settling his fingers there like a bracelet of warmth, and exhaled in bliss. "You're so blessed cool."

"Not something I've ever been accused of."

"Oh, shut up," Crowley sneered. "Get your kit off and get on top of me, now. Can't believe you, keeping this to yourself."

"I do feel a little used," Aziraphale lied, thrilling and triumphant, as he withdrew his hand to unbutton his shirt.

"You love it, you tart." Crowley was wrestling his own t-shirt off over his head, revealing the little crimson tufts under his arms which Aziraphale, oddly, always wanted to kiss; he paused in his unbuttoning to give in to the urge and Crowley made a sound which, under any other circumstance, Aziraphale would have classed as a shriek.1

"Sorry, my dear," said Aziraphale unapologetically, sitting back and shrugging out of his shirt.

"You're not. You never are. People think angels are so nice." Crowley's hips were doing something astonishing towards the goal of escaping the damp clutch of his shorts; Aziraphale obligingly lent two cool hands to assist. He'd had strong words with Crowley about miracling clothes away and how it, for one thing, spoiled the suspense and also, for another, resulted in a dearth of underwear. Aziraphale had been down to things with buttons that fell to his knees.

"Oh, I'm not nice to you?"

Crowley was mostly hard now, curved towards his belly, sweat beading in the soft red hair that descended lasciviously from his navel. Aziraphale could smell the salt of him, and it made his mouth flood.

"Fuck -- Aziraphale -- "

Crowley's whole body arched like a bow when Aziraphale's mouth touched him, carefully at first in little clinging kisses and then lushly, wetly, his mouth around the head. Aziraphale pressed his tongue under Crowley's foreskin where the taste of him was strongest and moaned his pleasure.

"That's," Crowley was saying, thighs jerking apart, "fuck, that's -- that's good, 's amazing, but come up here, come up, you're just making me hotter like this and it isn't fair -- "

Aziraphale surfaced at that, laughing; he wiped a hand across his mouth and Crowley followed it up with his own seconds later, tracing Aziraphale's lower lip with two fingers until Aziraphale, still smiling, nipped at them and took them in.

"Take these off," Crowley said, yanking at the waistband of Aziraphale's trousers. The combination of the angle and the one-handedness and the fact that Aziraphale's own hand had migrated to Crowley's spit-slick cock made it a bit of a frustrating endeavour, so Aziraphale decided _just this once_ and --

"Fucking thank you," Crowley hissed, pulling Aziraphale down on top of him. His hand slipped from Aziraphale's mouth and Aziraphale felt it slide down his spine, groping; he settled himself in the loll of Crowley's thighs and bent his head to kiss a nipple, then Crowley's throat, scraping his teeth in the hollow of it. He was still laughing; it was difficult not to, when Crowley was like this, and oh, Aziraphale did love him so much.

"Kiss me," Crowley said, lifting his face blindly, "come on, sweetheart, give us a kiss?"

His fingers combed through Aziraphale's hair, settling hot at the nape of his neck. Aziraphale leaned in gladly to snatch a kiss from his mouth, then press his tongue inside. Magic or not, Aziraphale's mouth was warm and Crowley's was warmer, but that didn't seem sufficient to make Crowley pull away. They kissed until their lips tingled with it, Crowley all grasping arms and legs, and then Aziraphale said "my darling" and got his hand between their bodies and Crowley moaned for it, lifting his hips.

"Fuck," Crowley spat, writhing, as Aziraphale pushed two fingers inside him, into the molten core of him. "Fuck, that's -- you're -- please, angel?"

"Anything," Aziraphale said, a snatch of breath. His cock ached; Crowley reached for it two-handed and tugged at it until Aziraphale shivered, stilled him with a thought. "But if you don't stop that, I won't make it, darling, and don't you want to cool down everywhere?"

"Oh, bloody hell," Crowley gasped, and bit at Aziraphale's mouth again as Aziraphale pushed into him, boring a path like cool running water, a balm.

Afterwards -- after Crowley had shivered apart around him; after he'd gripped Crowley's hips bruise-hard and shouted his name -- he lay on Crowley's chest in drowsy contentment for all of five minutes before Crowley shifted in discomfort and pushed at his shoulder, which Aziraphale thought seemed very ungrateful.

"Aziraphale," Crowley protested, "why are you -- God, it's like being pinned under a pile of mashed potato, get off me --"

"Oh," Aziraphale said, realising, and sat up. "Worn off. Sorry, my dear."

"You're not sorry, we've been through this," Crowley muttered. He was going pink again. "Shall we go to Tesco? They haven't got the tortilla things but they do have air conditioning."

"An excellent plan," Aziraphale said, and groped for his trousers.

1 As it was, he decided to prioritise getting Crowley naked, as accusing him of shrieking would definitely have put an abrupt stop to proceedings. Probably. All right, possibly.

[ return to text ]

**Author's Note:**

> "Heatwave Behaviour" is, I think, a VICE coinage: https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/wjkgx9/primer-heatwave-behaviour-why-sun-makes-you-weird


End file.
